


The Missing Year

by FroggyFeet



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Awful Humor, Bad Jokes, Gen, Humor, Ice Queen Lydia, Khajiit - Freeform, M!Khajiit Dragonborn, Moral Ambiguity, Morally Ambiguous Character, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, What is a hero anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 01:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FroggyFeet/pseuds/FroggyFeet
Summary: The time between meeting Lydia and meeting Argis.





	The Missing Year

4E 201, First Seed

Artan was damn tired. It always felt like he was tired now, what with his new addition. Lydia healed well, what with the Wildhelm's local 'wise woman' and her old world healing. The creepy house they had taken her to that day they had crash landed in the city was probably one of the oddest places Artan had ever been. Filled to the brim with plants, dried herbs, animal vicera and the regular magical paraphernalia.

The cat shook it away, instead redirecting his attention to Lydia, slogging along in the snow behind him. She had been quick to realize how much he detested cold weather. To be fair, he hadn't exactly been quiet about it. Whatever these old farts had to say to him, it had better be good. Swimming in a longhouse full of gold far away from civilisation would do it.

They had called across the entire province if word was to be believed, and honestly he kind of did believe it. The Thu'um was one of those old myths brought to life in every barrow, every old mass grave, nearly every inch of this crazed land like ugly little trees digging through ash. The way the common folk venerated people who could use the Thu'um was deluded, insane. Didn't save shit when the elves rocked up now, did it?

Lydia huffs behind him, and he cuts the thoughts off incase she can actually read his mind. Nords were strange, and it seemed like any time he had a bad thought she would hone in on him like a vulture all big eyes and worried brow.

Thankfully, he didn't need to pretend to be air-headed for long, what with the Greybeard enclave slowly appearing through the snowdrifts. Well, slowly only where most of it had been covered by the roiling white clouds that smothered the damn thing. The idea of old men hiding out here was as insane as the idea the clodhoppers had about the voice. The arthiritis alone-

Artan shook his head again. Honestly, Lydia would think he had a complex by the time she left.

He wordlessly throws Klimmek's supplies in the trunk at the base of a rather ostentatious statue of what must have been a Greybeard, and pointedly ignores Lydia as he does so. She probably thought he would keep it or throw it off the mountain or something, what with how Nords saw his kind. They stayed outside for a reason. All bar him, obviously, but thinking of him as a servant probably greased that wheel by a mile. They walk up the last set of stairs – honestly what sick fuck puts a bunch of pensioners at the top of 1000 steps – and an old rickety thing meets them by the door.

“So, the Dragonborn,” a creaky voice says, making Artan turn to a figure, barely hidden in the arch. The man nods, opening the door for them to go through, and honestly Artan was surprised he was being so polite. Usually people who cut themselves from the world were rude and generally awful. Still time, though.

“In this age, in my lifetime. Well, we shall see if you truely have the gift,” the man says, guiding them up into a room that needs more sconces, or at least a bonfire with how damn dark it all was. “Whenever you are ready, let us feel your voice, serrah.”

Artan looks around again, and is ashamed when a few more old ditties roll out from the wings. He hadn't heard nor smelt them, and as the Nine as his witness he hadn't seen them, either. Whatever these things were, they couldn't be regular humans. Even though it grates him, he tugs from the well inside him, hidden behind a thin film and easily drawn out, and the Thu'um engulfs him. He comes back to with the men scattered, all staring at him as if he had pulled an entire horker out of his ass.

“Dragonborn, it is you,” one if them murmurs softly, nodding to himself as if he was finally getting that walking stick he always wanted.

The one who had greeted them at the door gives them what must aproximate as a smile here, “Welcome to High Hrothgar, Dragonborn. I am Master Arngeir, Speaker of the Greybeards. Now, tell me what brings you here?”

Artan is silent for a moment, looking between them all as the Greybeards turn their focus on him. It should feel alien, unwanted and ultimately make him want to run or kill them. Attention on him usually makes him feel like clawing eyes out; either his or theirs depending on the moment. Instead it just feels warm, like hes at a campfire. Like he's with S'eta and Eerian, Jaden just made his famous pies and Talia has had a night without bad dreams. It throws him for a moment, but he returns eventually. The Greybeards are patient, he gives them that.

“You summoned me here, remember?” he smiles, wan, and Arngeir barks a laugh.

“Not wrong, no. But you could have ignored us, couldn't you? Why come here, to us? What would you like to learn?” he asks, voice smoother now. It must have finally become less painful to speak. Artan knew what prolonged silence did to a throat, but it seemed like Arngeir was getting better at the whole talking thing.

“The locals keep calling me Dragonborn, even you do too,” Artan says more than asks.

“It is what you are. Your soul is that of a dragon. One of your kind has been destined to fight Alduin for centuries and ultimately save this world and the next, is how the legend goes. We are here to teach, and have summoned you here in order to show you your destiny. Only the path, however. What you decide to do, what path you choose to take is your own, Dragonborn,” the Greybeard tucks his hands into his sleeves, looking at Artan as if the whole entire- well in a way it apparently did.

“Fuck,” he huffs, patting at his wooly hat with one of his mittens. Lydia had laughed at him when she saw them, but she knew not to say anything. “As if it hasn't done enough,” he snarls, rubbing until his hat comes off.

“I don't presume to know you, nor your life up until now, Dragonborn,” Arngeir starts, bowing his head slightly. “But no matter what life has thrown at you, you are still here. Dragon soul or not, I don't doubt that you have overcome things in your life that should have broken you, but haven't. Your indominatable will has brought you this far, regardless of what has happened and what will happen. The world is cruel; awful things happen every minute of every day. But it is by the actions of good people that make the way less painful. A kind hand here, a good word there, makes or breaks a world for one person. That isn't destiny, it is us taking control of our own actions rather than just existing. I don't doubt your intentions, nor your ability to save the world. I doubt that it will be easy, however.”

Artan can't say anything to that, instead just raising a brow.

Arngeir laughs again, “I am an old man. I can see a world-weary traveller for what they are, the same way you can see we are not like alot of those you have met before.”

“And how can you know that?” the Khajiit asks, wary.

“Because otherwise one of us would be dead!” the old man snorts, shaking his head.

xxx

“So you have decided to save the world?” Lydia asks when they are alone, left in one of the empty rooms of the Greybeard's resting quaters. Lydia doesn't sound confused, or derisive. Strange, really.

“Someone has to I suppose,” he replies, not looking at her. He doesn't want to see her expression, probably surprise that someone like him would go out of his way to protect others. Gods knew what she was thinking, a Khajiit of all things being a legendary soul-creature-thing from her childhood stories. They probably spoke in hushed whispers at night, stories of a Dragonborn that would save the world. Gods knew they sang enough about it after the Greybeard's called through Skyrim for him. Every tavern from Whiterun to Windhelm to Riften had sang about it, and ultimately it had led him here. He was curious about it all. What made all of these bush weirdos unite over a single thing? They couldn't even decide about Talos.

“I just never expected you to see something in this world worth saving,” she says quietly, and Artan can't breathe for a moment. “You came here alone from what I can tell. You never speak about your family, nor friends or anyone you might care about. The way you look at me sometimes makes me think you expect me to murder you in your sleep or something. It makes sense, Skyrim isn't kind to new people.”

She carries on, mumbling quietly enough that he can barely hear her, but the things she says smooths over the static, lightning feeling thats flooding his entire system. He waits until she stops, looking at her hands between her knees as if the whole universe was falling apart. “I'm not good with words, honestly.”

“Lydia,” Artan says, waiting until she looks him in the eye. “There is _always_ something worth fighting for.”

xxx

Artan lands hard, feeling his teeth smash together and finally noticing the blood pouring from his nose. Paarthurnax looms above, the soft thrum of his voice bathing the Khajiit in that familiar warmth of the Thu'um. It takes a moment, what with how he feels like he's an egg in a bakery, but he comes around properly when Lydia presses a cloth to his face, attempting to stem the bleeding before it chokes him. “Did you push?” Lydia asks, and Artan snorts.

“It pushed back really hard, but I won. I know dragonrend. I can take down Alduin. Whether or not I can kill him, however...” he bites back what would most likely be a huge splodge of blood, swallowing hard and sitting up with a little help from Lydia. “Destiny, right?” He smirks at the colossal white dragon, who snorts in reply.

“You have heard my opinion on the matter. Power without action and choice is power inert, Dovahkiin,” he rumbles, the force of his simple breath sending Lydia's hair into a whirlwind around her head. She doesn't look like she's about to be sick, now. She apparently had become more used to the dragon, if you ever could become used to such a thing.

“I remember you saying destiny was a crock of shit,” the cat laughs, high and bright in the bright light shining off the snow. The daytime doesn't give even the slightest bit of warmth, but Artan is glad for it non the less.

Paarthurnax laughs too, shaking his massive head. “Naak dii ulaan reym.” 

Artan just laughs louder when Lydia looks at him hard in expectation, wanting a translation.

Xxx

He's moving before he's really even coherent. Up, on his feet with whoever had appeared over him against the wall. He has a dagger out and free hand at their throat before his eyes even open fully, so when he hears a soft wheeze he knows he's fucked up. He opens his eyes, staring Lydia straight in the eye. For a moment that feels like an entire lifetime, they look at each other. Her, pinned to the wall with her hands flat to the surface, him with his hand around her windpipe, dagger raised high with claw against her jugular in-case he missed with the blade. He's dropped it before the next blink, heaving in a breath as Lydia peels herself from the wall. 

She slides down it, landing in a heap on the floor, one hand at her neck and the other bracing her against the night stand. The old, derelict pub had been in the ass end of nowhere, empty save for the bow-legged innkeep that made a stew Artan almost got down on one knee for. Perfect, really. Artan can't really hide from what's happening in the now, no matter how nice that food was. Lydia can't seem to look at him, instead staring at the opposing wall.

“I... I'm sorry, I didn't mean that,” Artan mutters, knocking his head with the palm of his hand. “I...”

“Don't normally have a friendly face waking you up?” Lydia smiles, but it isn't really a happy thing. It's an out, a way they don't have to talk about it, and Artan takes it.

“No, not usually. What's wrong?” he asks to redirect the conversation. It's not because he cares in the slightest. “Usually I'm awake before you are.”

“The innkeep wants the room back,” she says quietly, avoiding his eyes. 

“Pelt?”

She doesn't answer, and that is enough. They gather their things in silence, and when they walk out of the room, he looks to the man behind the bar. A huge black shiner covers half of his face, and his nose looks completely broken. Artan doesn't ask, just smirks coldly in his direction. He knew from previous inns what had happened. The man makes a move, but his wife pulls him back. They leave, but apparently not without leaving a mark. 

The horses are tired up outside, and thankfully still in one piece. 

Whiterun was maybe three days ride away, but not far enough that they needed to resupply.

“Have you ever caught a dragon, before?” He asks, and she gives him a look. 

“Yes, just last Turdas I caught one. Blighter was raiding my unicorn herd, so I had to do something,” she says sardonically, making him bark a laugh into the winds.

xxx

It seemed like a regular day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, but obviously it had to go bad. Riften was a shithole, corrupt through and through. Why in the hell Artan had brought her here, she didn't know. He never explained really why he wanted to come here, of all places, but when he leads her through a side door at the lakeside and into a house, she twigs on pretty quickly.

“Finally convinced them to let you buy a place here?” she asks, and he just snorts.

“Jarl sneered the whole way through, but yeah. Iona was happy as larry when she found out. Finally didn't have to sleep in the longhouse on a dirt floor any more.”

The house is beautiful, “Honeyside,” he named it. The outside was bare, really, which probably made her think they were coming to a fishery rather than a home. It was inside that it became lovely, fur rugs across the floorboards, pretty tapestries and-

“Iona?” Artan calls, throwing his bags across the bed.

It was a bit small, really, having the bed in what amounted to the living room, but cosy she supposed. A bit dusty, too, with cobwebs and-

“Rat?” Lydia frowns, as the two zero in on the thing eating its way through the bags of grain underneath one of the chairs at the table. “I'm surprised she hasn't take it to prison already,” Artan huffs, stomping his feet to send it running. The house is silent, after that, but by the way his back straightens and his tail does _the thing_, she knows something is wrong. It had been months that they had been tracking through the wilderness, hunting all sorts of things. Uprooting vampire nests, destroying witch covens, basically causing a whole lot of hell for a lot of things. Her favourite was the werewolves holed up in an old barrow, simply because watching a tiny whelp of a cat outmanoeuvre and ultimately demolish their entire pack was insane. They didn't manage to save anyone the wolves had stolen, but the villages nearby were safe, finally.

Artan sweeps into a side room and down the stairs, which honestly surprised Lydia. She figured the shoebox rooms on the top floor was the only places to go, but-

“Fuck.”

“Artan?” She says lowly, still as stone. He had never sounded like that before. Never so-

“Don't come down here,” he says, and she tries not to shake as he comes back up the stairs, grabs the sheets off the bed and goes back down. He returns a moment later, and she can't even look at him. He doesn't look like the Artan she has grown to know since he became her Thane, not even in the slightest. He's out of the house in a moment, and she follows, but giving him a very, very wide berth. He is speaking lowly with a guard, who must say something, because Artan doesn't even seem to care that by _upending the guard and pinning him to the ground_ would cause the twenty or so other guards to come running.

Xxx

It's a whirlwind, after that. Iona is dead, mutilated by someone after him. Lydia can't even begin to process it. He's not even capable of engaging with anything, the hamster wheel going round and round but the animal is dead. She doesn't know what to do here, what to say. They are strangers really.

He finds a lead when he literally tears the house to pieces, finding some sort of claw tucked into a floorboard, one matching the incisions-

Lydia swallows, hard enough to clear the bile but not enough to steady her.

“Artan-”

“Go home,” he says, not even turning to look at her. She can't disobey an order, but-

“Are you... are you going to be alright?” _Going to avenge her? Going to catch the people that did this? Are you going to do something? _All left unsaid, but she can't ask. She is a housecarl, not a-

Artan doesn't answer, but the look he gives her, she doesn't ask anything else. She leaves him the wineskin, but otherwise packs her bag with enough supplies to get her back to Whiterun. He pushes her hands away when she goes to close her bag, instead stuffing even more in alongside his own waterskin. “Stay safe, and stay smart.” He nods, but still doesn't look at her, and that's the last time she sees him in a long while. The last she hears about Iona, or the people that did that to her, two bodies had been strung up in Riften town centre with their insides mostly outside. She doesn't ask, when he comes back, what he did. She doesn't even acknowledge what happened, and he seems to prefer that. It's a silent understanding that comes between them, however, that regardless of what they thought of each other, there was a whole ocean underneath the ice sheets.

xxx

She doesn't think about it again until she almost dies.

They were clod hopping their way through The Reach, doing their best to get to Markarth. Nine knew what Artan had there, but Lydia guessed it was a new housecarl and another house. She wondered, absently whether or not it was a good idea after what happened with Iona. Lydia spent most of her time with Artan, or at home in Whiterun. Martharth was a cesspool, full of oldworld Stormcloak types who would see a pelt. A danger, to their women and children. They would see what most of Skyrim saw, what they had all been taught to see. An Imperial soldier showing up, let alone a Khajiit Imperial Leggate, showing up to a hostile city, it well. It made her teeth set on edge.

Artan didn't give a shit. He never gave a shit, regardless of how people treated him. He just laughed at them, ignored them, or kicked their asses if they swung at him. He was impervious to whatever venom they spat at him, whatever things they said or whatever they did.

Lydia knew she would not have the same restraint if the roles were reversed.

He was a damn hero. After everything they had done together, she knew that better than she knew anything. It was a bone-deep knowledge that whatever happened, he would do his best to save the day. Yeah he would complain and throw a smoke bomb in the mix, try to hide that he actually cared, but he would be there in the thick of it. She looks to him now, his back straight and tail-

“Artan, what-”

He's off his horse in an instant, fast enough to dodge the arrow but the horse takes the hit instead. It shrieks, loud enough to make her own bay shit itself and throw itself back as if it tottered on the edge of the world itself, and fuck if that didn't suck. She lands hard, the horse scampers, and honestly she would have kicked up more of a fuss if a hulking ball of hay didn't rush her from the scant treeline. She has her shield up in time -praise the nine- and the thing's stabbing thing glances off to the side and gets caught on the lip. She only has a second to glance, to see that it's a sword made of _bones_, before the creature pulls, and her shield goes flying. It's a man, now she looks, and she doesn't have to think _men die _before she's trading blows with it. Her sword doesn't smash his sword, unfortunately, but she can't think why not because within seconds, he draws something from the creepy hay-costume he has on and-

She's choking in the smoke, dust, whatever, and she can't open her eyes. Whatever equal footing she had was gone, and he has her on her back the next instant. She drops her sword -_rookie mistake Lydia what are you doing?!_\- and is barely keeping him back with her hands. He's sat on her stomach, but his sword is gone, and he's hitting her but her armour is taking the brunt of it. Until he pulls out another bone and stabs her straight in the neck where it meets her shoulder, just where the armour stops.

She looks up at him, shock plain on her face. He's smiling, all broken teeth, but-

Artan snaps his neck in the next instant, violent enough that he turns it the entire way around. He heaves the man off her, and somehow manages to get his hands in where she's flailing her own around the bone still in her neck. He's mumbling something, she doesn't understand but it sounds nice, and a flash of fear shoots through her that this is it she's going to die.

He tugs the dagger out, and her head feels like its falling off. Pins and needles shoot through her entire body, and light bleaches out her vision until she is sure she is dead. His words get louder, and louder, though, and colour bleeds back into the world, shapes return and she's looking at him, covered in her blood and looking like someone had dragged his ass through a swamp. He's gold all over, but she realizes slowly that it's healing magic that makes him look like that. The misty sorcery was clouding up around her head and neck where he was focusing it.

“Feeling better?” he asks, and Lydia has no words yet. She pats a hand against his hands where they are pressed against her neck, stemming the bleeding and pumping energy into her. She tries a smile, but she can't have done well by the huff he does in reply.

“Managed to break your leg somehow, I can't heal that but we saw a house a little ways back,” he says quietly, but honestly it sounds like he is whispering.

“I didn't know you knew healing magic,” Lydia states, but really it's a question.

Artan glances away, an answer in itself.

xxx

“I didn't try to murder her,” Artan tells the old woman, who just stares plainly at him.

“I know,” she says softly, and by the Nine it actually makes the cat's hackles go down. Lydia pats him on the shoulder from where he has her across his shoulders. He settles even more, which probably should have surprised her. “Are you coming in then? I can't do anything about her leg from out here.”

“How did you know it was her leg?” the cat asks, but the old woman just scoffs.

“You are carrying her, lad,” a sharp grey eyebrow punctuates her response rather well, and she turns on her heel and scuffles her way into her home, holding the door open expectantly. Artan hesitates, Nine knows why considering he was most likely a hundred times more dangerous than an elderly woman, but he does anyway. Lydia pats him again, and it seems to shake whatever was happening between his ears, and they go inside.

“My name is Oddveig, and welcome to my home. Here, on here,” she shuffles inside after closing the door behind them, and pulls back a curtain against one of the walls not covered in cooking utensils to reveal a small cot. “It's a day bed, but it will do. Please, here.”

Artan places Lydia down, careful not to jar her too hard, and steps back. The woman, Oddveig, is rustling around with pots and pans and things and setting water to boil. She returns to start undoing the plates around Lydia's leg, gently enough that Lydia doesn't flinch or anything, but then she is probably gritting her teeth too hard to do much else. “Here,” Oddveig gives her a jar of something, and Lydia chugs it down. “Helps with the pain, but you must already know that,” she smiles, and Lydia scoffs.

“I've had quite a few broken bones over the years,” she smiles, brittle. “I'm Lydia, and this is Artan.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” Oddveig nods, smiling as she returns to the fireside. “Please, sit young man.”

Artan does as told, mostly out of shock really. He expected... well he expected to be told to wait outside or something. Nords were mostly shit when it came to anything that wasn't a Nord or human-passing like Bretons. Probably because they didn't know Bretons had elvish blood all the way back when, but still. “What are the herbs for?” he asks, mostly to be polite and fill the silence.

“Wrapping her leg in these leaves will help my focus even more. I'm not a young pup any more, so every little helps the healing,” she says, laughing quietly at herself. “Talos knows how tricky everything is when you get old. Well, I guess he wouldn't, would he?” She shakes her head, turning to Lydia. “You don't mind a little healing magic, do you? It will go much faster if I can set the bones now, or we can do it the slow way where it heals alone. What do you prefer?”

“I don't mind magic,” Lydia replies groggily, burrowing further into the feathery pillows under her head. “Not bad.”

“Stronger than you're used to?” Oddveig chuckles, creaking a little as she sits back in the rocking chair by the fire. She idly stirs the pot, looking in now and again to mumble to herself and throw more leaves and twigs in. Artan takes her distraction to look around, and generally be nosy. It was a small cottage, filled with stuff. Fur rugs, what looked to be a large bedroom through the doorway near the fire, with a big dinner table in the centre of the kitchen-living room. A dog is asleep near a plush-looking armchair, books piled on the small table beside it and a huge bookcase beside that. Overall it looked like a cosy home.

Lydia sighs, bringing his attention back to her. Oddveig has shuffled over and begun wrapping the long grass-like leaves around her leg, the pot now off the fire with a thin crust of ice around it to help it cool faster. Artan leans in a little closer when the woman begins casting, and honestly it looks beautiful. It is a much more sparkly spell than his, little lights flickering in the gold mist. “My chair please, young man.”

Artan drags over the chair she had sat on beside the fire, and she sits, sighing heavily as she takes the weight off. Her magic doesn't stutter like his does, instead a steady stream that somehow has Lydia smiling softly to herself.

“Where did you learn magic?” he asks.

“Mother taught me, grandmother taught her. My family all learn, even if it is just a little. Mind, my son is useless at it! Bless his soul he was good at other things, but magic? Didn't make sense to him. Very good poultices though, and he could make an entire quilt in a week. He is a few years older than you, I would say,” she smiles, cutting off the magic. “Tea?”

Lydia grumbles to herself, apparently asleep. Made sense, after the adrenaline crash. “Yes, please,” Artan stands, awkwardly hovering as Oddveig makes tea. She wanders outside with it to sit on a marvellously carved bench. Artan, at a loss, follows her and together they sit and drink tea. “Who made this?”

“One of my daughters trained to be a carpenter. She is employed by some noble, you know the kind. All flash and no bang that boy. Getting himself a hefty inheritance from his father, never worked a day in his life 'cept in the outhouse, eats with a golden spoon, whips his serfs harder than his dogs. Good money, helps her survive. She's been living lean, giving her money to the others. The ones who get paid pittance for what he has them do. Foolish girl,” she smiles softly, fondly, and he can literally feel the pride rolling off her. Small things make or break a person, Artan knows. Nine knew he had used that to break a target before, make them an easier kill, make the cause of death seem like a breakdown rather than a murder. Those people probably owed their lives, their children's lives to her daughter, giving them bread where they couldn't afford it, that kind of thing.

“She is incredibly skilled, I haven't seen work like this since I left-” he bites the end of his sentence off but she catches him. And blight take him, he finishes. “Since I left the Dominion.”

“Good on you for escaping, lad,” she pats his arm, and he can't help the rawness that overtakes him.

He cant stop the sudden want to cry any more than she can stop herself from holding him through it. Fuck it he was an assassin not a child, but here he was, sobbing into an old woman's shawl. “You did well to get away. I can't imagine what they did to you, but you're safe now. Worst that will happen is you eat a dodgy sweet roll,” she pats him, and they both know its a platitude but he laughs wetly anyway.

“I'm sorry, you don't even know me-”

“You're Artan,” she shrugs, holding him tighter. “Probably some kid caught up in a Jarl's shit, I can smell housecarl off that girl a mile off. Caught up in shit because you can't stand the idea of someone else hurting, right? You might be a closed book to her, but I can see something of a wound in you. It's scabbing over, but it never leaves, and it doesn't become easier to live with. You become stronger to cope with it.”

“Witch,” he snorts, pulling back to rub at his face.

“Mrs Witch to you, scamp,” Oddveig laughs, swatting him with a hand. “She is going to be alright. And you will too, after a bath. You're covered in blood. Did very well to heal up that wound on her neck. Must have been a nightmare in the sunshine, having to do that as a new mage.”

“You Nord's have some scary eyes, you know?” Artan looks at her, really looks, but still she is just an old woman, an old mother, looking wryly back.

“Aye, I know.”

xxx

“It doesn't feel right, leaving you here,” Artan says quietly. Lydia scoffs hard enough that she spits tea.

“You need to put the down payment on the house, and that new housecarl is going to flip his shit if you're late. Talos knows I did,” she replies easily, wiping around her mouth with a thumb. She looked different, wrapped up in Oddveig's sons clothes. They were the only clothes that kind of fit, what with both daughters being a little smaller than Lydia. Artan had said it was because Lydia bench-pressed cows every morning, which had made their host laugh and the woman herself flush like a beet.

He had told her everything. Where he was from, where he had been, what he had done. Lydia hadn't screamed at him, told him to leave, renounced her vow. She had nodded. And then she had accepted it all. Said it was fucked up, royally, but still she had accepted it. Brought up every little thing they had done since she had met him, brought up Alduin of all things as if that made it better. A few good things didn't make a man good, he knew that. But she seemed to think he was redeeming himself for Taneth, but he argued that nothing ever would.

“You're still injured,” he tries, but she shakes her head.

“I'm safe here with Oddveig. You saw her with that atronach, it'll be fine.”

“Yeah, still a bit surprised about that if I'm honest.”

She gives him a wry look, “not everyone becomes an Archmage by accident.”

“Ouch,” he hisses, narrowing his eyes at her. She sniggers, taking another sip from her tea. “Swing back and get me when you're done. By then you never know, maybe I'll have learned magic and be challenging you for your title.”

“You can take it. Honestly, every other letter I get it's 'they turned the townsfolk into fennecs please send funds to placate the Jarl.' Either that or 'we destroyed a small part of the castle, please sign these forms so we can hire people to rebuild.'”

“You became a daddy and didn't even realize,” she says, smirking when he hisses again.

Xxx

Stood outside the golden doors to the Jarl's halls, Artan actually felt nervous. Iona, well she was dead. Lydia nearly got the same fate, what with all the bullshit that happened with those crazy Forsworn trying to do whatever the shit they did with people they ran into on the road. You heard stories about them, hiding out in the hills with their Hagraven mistresses, sacrificing people, and if some were to be believed, eating people. Humans were generally shit, so he didn't particularly care about that part. Well, he said he didn't He had just spent the last few months rooting them all out, probably bringing their whole world down around their ears. News had come in about one of the bigger fishing villages getting raided, and in turn completely wiped off the face of the map. Him and Lydia had scoured the hills, not finding anything but bones with human teeth marks and clothes used as fire kindling. 

He wasn't about to say he would stand up for the weak and helpless, any deity who had been watching knew he was usually the bad news on the wind. 

The idea that people spent their lives in fear of what wave would break across their homes next, it didn't sit right with him. Never had, really. He wasn't about to psychoanalyse why, but he was still stapled to the floor, not taking another step towards what he had arguably been working on for months. His plan to get into the hold had worked. He was to become Thane. He was also about to get another Housecarl, Argis. 

And he didn't want to think about why, but he actually cared about dragging someone else into his mess. 

The Alik'r, the Dominion, fuck even Eldunarto was still looking for him. Not to say of the vampires that killed Iona. The Companions weren't the type to murder those closest to him, but by Talos would Lydia put her life on the line if they came after him, and fuck knows what those dogs would do. Lydia pissed him off, and he liked her. He didn't want to think about burying what was left of her when he failed to protect her. He was good, but probably not twenty werewolves good. He would survive, he always did, but those around him always took the fall. 

He hesitated even more, but he knew what he had to do. He had to make a network of normal people to be around. The Brotherhood was good, but he was on the main stage now with the Dragonborn stuff. He needed a daytime face, one that people could trust. Talos knew that his race and looks had swept through the province like wildfire, and now even people here knew who he was, what he had done. 

And maybe, like Lydia said, there was something he could do to make it all better.

This shithole would have gone under if left in the hands of these cretins. Maven, Ulfric, that shithead thane in Solitude that had a stick so far up his ass he spat leaves. There was corruption everywhere here, nothing as convoluted as the Dominion, but enough that the people suffered. Innocents. People who just wanted to live their lives in peace, watching their kids grow, seeing their friends and going out to drink in the inns at night with the lads from the docks. Fuck it.

He was an asshole, he had done a lot of shit to a lot of people. He could never make up for it. But he could at least make life a little less painful for others, couldn't he? He had time. He had the money. All he had to do was set up more networks, set up a base here. Lydia showed him he would be welcome. Oddveig showed him he wouldn't always be an outsider, not to everyone. Fuck, he could walk down a street in Whiterun now and people would say goodmorning. Riften was shit, but it was Riften. 

He could live here, sorting out bullshit.

Could he trust another Nord? He didn't know. He didn't know if it was worth it, setting up base here. Would it all fall apart? Would he be running down mainstreet naked again, Justicars on his ass? He could always leave. Lydia could have the house, a big chunk of money to do whatever she wanted to. It would be ok. 

And he stepped into the Keep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's been quite a while! Alot has been going on my end, so I haven't had much time to write. My dad passed away, I redid my house, my fella moved in, I have a son now as well. Literal mad house up in here. 
> 
> Anyway, this is what I've always kind of had in my head about the timeskip between meeting Lydia and meeting Argis. This is the concrete stuff anyway, I have some other things flitting about but nothing I'm willing to commit to yet. I had an entire like novel typed out for this AN, but AO3 ate it and it's gone. Same way my email betrayed me by moving all AO3 stuff to junk mail, meaning I didn't see any of your lovely comments until I randomly logged in to post this. Ahh well. 
> 
> I'm not sure when the sequel for Fus Roh Ta-dah will get done, honestly I have like 3 chapters and then a paste-bin doc full of random paragraphs I've been collecting as like a general moodboard/brainstorm. I have maybe two other projects I like the sound of, one being a Gangster/Modern Assassin AU, like Desmond's whole deal in Asscreed. Don't know yet, still thinking about it. I also have a few chapters done on a fic for the ROTG fandom after I spent loads of time binge reading Pitch Black fics during night feeds, so maybe something will happen with that. 
> 
> I've also got a few more oneshots planned for this universe, hopefully more fun and less plot driven, but still. I hope this sheds some light on Lydia and Artan's relationship. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I hope I've not completely rusty with writing!!! As per the usual, not beta read so if i've made a mistake please give me a heads up!!
> 
> ~Frog


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